"I love you like a son, and will follow you like a dog. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. "Prisoner at the bar," thus ran the sentence, "you shall be taken to the prison from whence you came, and put into a mean room, stopped from the light; and shall there be laid on the bare ground, without any litter, straw, or other covering, and without any garment. How dreary it all looks.
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